Redemption Day
by keem
Summary: They didn't live happily - or unhappily - ever after. But that wasn't important: what was important was that they lived. Ongoing.
1. to see you've been aptly damned

The woman is wearing a muddled expression, the likes of which he has not seen before. The look she gives him is nothing like the one she gave Kurosaki, when she thought he was dying: there is no horror, no tears. She looks simply_ blank_, as if she can't quite understand what's happening right before her very eyes.

_Shall I explain it to you?_

He's not sure what he expects of her, but it certainly isn't _this_. Their relationship has always been strange, having never been the traditional captive and captor scenario. He would have thought that she had been manipulating _him_, and not the other way around, had he not known better: regardless, it was odd to think that he might come to miss her and her irrational behavior.

_When we used to talk about hearts… I used to think you were so ridiculous, so pathetically _human_._

Ulquiorra has never been afraid of his own mortality – he had accepted the inevitability of such an end upon first becoming an Espada. Kurosaki has yet to perform the konso, and he certainly doesn't seem to be in the frame of mind to carry out such a duty – not that Ulquiorra much cares. If anything, the end that's surely coming for him is little more than a long, deep sleep. A welcome change, after all the mental and physical warfare.

_I am not afraid. But I am… what?_

"Woman," Ulquiorra says, and the sound of his voice at last startles the ginger-haired girl out of her reverie. She looks to his wings first, slowly crumbling away into tiny flecks of ash.

"Are you frightened of me?"

She inclines her head, looking him full-on in the face. The gesture might have been brazen--daring, if her eyebrows weren't furrowed in such a manner that makes her look so profoundly sad. It's then that Ulquiorra recognizes that dull ache in his chest as wistfulness.

_Now_ he sees tears, or at least the start of them, gathering in the corner of her eyes. The sight of it stirs up dregs of something else, something he hasn't experienced in so long that he doesn't know what to make of it.

"I'm not scared."

He wants to say something, but there _is_ nothing to say. Ulquiorra is not the type to give comfort, and so he remains mute. He's dying, and suddenly the absoluteness of it troubles him. He is not afraid – no, never afraid – but he realizes, with a sudden epiphany, that he's simply not _ready._

Ulquiorra reaches for her, as if establishing a physical link between them will somehow keep the darkness at bay. It is futile, meaningless gesture, of course – because even though she reaches for him in return, their fingers never eclipse. It's too late, and Ulquiorra is gone.

--

He's dead but he _isn't_, because he is secured in the sanctity of the woman's arms. A golden aura surrounds the two of them – the protective dome that Ulquiorra recognizes as her Shun Shun Rikka.

"Woman," Ulquiorra says, and he is surprised by how hoarse and brittle his voice sounds. "What are you doing?"

She is very plainly ignoring him, instead concentrating fiercely on the task at hand. Ulquiorra is not longer in his release state; he has been reduced to his weaker form, the one with the bone helmet and the number four tattooed on his chest. His clothes are in rags, barely-there, but Ulquiorra has never been body-conscious. He lies there in her arms, laughably weak, and the hands that clasp him by the shoulders and behind the knees are vice-like, unyielding.

"Woman… your grip…" he intones weakly. "It _hurts_."

_Pain… when have I ever felt pain before?_

Despite his protests, she does not let on. The glow surrounding them intensifies, sharpens, like a lens coming into focus, and that pain in Ulquiorra's joints intensifies, suddenly white-hot; it sends electric bursts down the red and blue chords of his body, so awful that Ulquiorra has to bite back the scream.

He hears a cracking sound, and at first he thinks it's what's left of the bones in his ruined body; but then the samurai helm above his brow breaks cleanly down the middle before falling to the ground and shattering into hundreds of tiny pieces. Ulquiorra stares down at the shards in disbelief, before there's a flare of pain in his chest, acute and agonizing.

This time Ulquiorra really did cry out – a high, keening wail that was entirely unfamiliar to his own ears.


	2. all eyes on me in the center of the ring

A/N: i'm sorry - i really don't have any excuse. the first half of this has been floating around on my harddrive for the past several weeks; i just haven't had the inspiration to do a quick finish. D:

for those of you who are interested, **i am holding a fanart contest this summer. deadline is july 1st. details are in my profile.**

--

When Ulquiorra comes to, he's aware of the woman's hands upon him. He's being cradled in her lap, one of her arms tucked underneath his thin thighs while the other keeps his head in an elevated position. There's a commotion going on above him.

"Inoue, are you nuts?"

Ulquiorra tries to open his eyes, but they feel so _heavy_.

"Be _quiet_, Kurosaki," comes the Quincy's voice. Then, more gently: "Inoue-san, what do you plan on doing with him? We can't leave him here—"

"Actually, we _could_," Ichigo offers.

"—But Aizen would have him _killed_, which would undermine what Inoue-san is trying to accomplish here." There's a sigh. "We know he's not in any state to defend himself. And we can assume that Inoue-san didn't simply heal him so that we could turn him over to the Soul Society, am I correct?" Ulquiorra feels a long strand of ginger hair tickle his brow; the woman must have nodded, because the next words out of the Quincy's mouth are: "I thought as much. But we can't simply allow him to come with us to the human world – if left unattended, he'll surely transform into a hollow again. It could be dangerous."

Ulquiorra can hear her swallow. "Well, I was thinking that perhaps Urahara-san could fit him with a gigai…"

"But then what?" Kurosaki demands. "Where's he going to stay?"

Even in such close proximity to Ulquiorra, the woman's voice sounds faint, feeble. He can imagine her wilting beneath the intense gaze of the orange-haired shinigami.

"W-well, with me."

The Quincy starts to say something, but Kurosaki speaks over him. "No, _you_ shut up, Ishida, this is important." He clears his throat. "Inoue," he says gruffly, although he seems considerably less hostile towards her now. "You can't just _keep_ him. He isn't… a pet."

The hands holding Ulquiorra tremble. "I'm not trying to be mean," Kurosaki rectifies quickly. "I'm just worried! This is like society's equivalent of harboring a wanted criminal. You get that, don't you? This could get you in big trouble, Inoue. I just hope that you're aware of that."

"I know," she whispers miserably.

"You're upsetting her, Kurosaki," the Quincy reprimands him. "It isn't like you to be the voice of reason, anyway."

Ulquiorra's noxious green optics finally emerge from beneath the heavy fringe of dark lashes. Immediately all conversation ceases as they look upon him anxiously, almost bashfully; wondering if he's overheard.

_Like guilty children. _

"Ulquiorra! You're awake!"

As Ulquiorra moves to sit up, she obligingly slackens her hold on him. One of his hands seizes her by the mid-thigh as he tries to swing himself into an upright position. Ulquiorra's vision swims as his muscles scream in protest.

"Um. Maybe you should lie back down."

Ulquiorra ignores her. He feels fatigued, a new sensation.

_Why am I so tired?_

He reaches up to clasp himself by the horn, only to swipe at the open air there futilely. The information is slow to process, but eventually it does.

_I don't have a mask anymore. _

The implication this notion carries is stunning. No mask? Ulquiorra suddenly recalls vivid, painful memories from earlier (has it been mere minutes? Or hours? How long has he been out cold, exactly?), the searing feeling in his chest as he watched chunks of his mask fall to his feet and shatter like porcelain.

Something akin to fear grips him. His digits trace down the line of his clavicle to where his hollow hole would usually rest at the center. His fingers feel the smooth, heavy links of a chain instead, and immediately he understands.

_She has rejected my Hollow existence._

Ulquiorra thinks he might pass out again. _Weak! I'm nothing but weak human trash! _He jerks at the thought of it so abruptly that the back of his head smashes into the woman's. She yelps, and immediately they are upon Ulquiorra, trying to wrestle him off of her.

"He didn't mean it!" she's protests as they haul him to his feet. Ulquiorra is strung out between Kurosaki and the Quincy, arms extended as though being crucified. He does not struggle. He gives one arm an experimental tug, but Kurosaki's hold is vice-like and unyielding. Ulquiorra's own strength is not enough to break it.

"Look at his face!" the woman cries, misreading him entirely. "You're hurting him!"

Ulquiorra tries to concentrate on his spiritual pressure, trying to get it to swell in power. It rises, but feebly, like the bleating of a small lamb.

_I've lost all my power._

When he looks upon her face this time, there is no wistfulness – there is only confusion, and yes, even anger. The woman seems startled to see it.

"Why did you do this?"

Her gaze shifts between the two that adorn either side of Ulquiorra anxiously, as though _they _have some sort of answer to give. The woman opens and closes her mouth several times, a string of useless syllables and half-starts tumbling out.

"I—But you—"

"You did me a disservice," Ulquiorra responds coldly. The woman seems to be on the verge of tears, and the former Espada can feel the intense gaze of her companions upon him. He doesn't care.

The hilt of Kurosaki's sword hits him in the soft plush of his stomach, and Ulquiorra crumples like a deck of cards. The orange-haired shinigami grabs him by the front of his outfit and hauls him to his knees. Their faces are mere millimeters apart, and Ulquiorra can smell the sourness on the boy's breath.

"Don't give me that," he hisses. "You wanted this. You reached out – and Inoue grabbed you. That's all."

Ulquiorra doesn't blink. Neither does Kurosaki. For several minutes they regard it each other with their individual steely expressions, unyielding in their silent face-off.

The Quincy heaves a great sigh, drawing their attention. Ulquiorra watches as he pushes his glasses further up on the bridge of his nose. "Kurosaki," he says coolly. "We haven't the _time_." The direness of his tone causes the shinigami to give pause. Eventually he grunts.

"You're right," he admits, hoisting his enormous sword, too big to be allowed, from the magical sheath on his back. The wrappings give way as he extends it before him, leveling it so that the point is staring Ulquiorra directly in the face.

"Ulquiorra," he says gruffly. "You better not give them any trouble. If I hear that you made Inoue cry, I'll—"

"You think I'm afraid of that, shinigami?"

The implication hangs heavy in the air. Ulquiorra is not happy, nor relieved, about being saved. Although he had experienced wistfulness in his final moments, he had never once wanted to be spared in exchange for such terms. His powers for his life seems hardly a fair trade.

_I'd rather be dead._

Ulquiorra has never experienced hate before, or if he has, he has no recollection of such. But, gazing upon the faces of the woman and her two companions, he does feel the bitter twinge of resentment.

The shinigami doesn't know what to say to that. His sword remains trained upon Ulquiorra, but his attention has shifted to the others beside him.

"I've got to go find Rukia and the others," he says. The Quincy nods in assent and the woman wrings her hands anxiously before her. "Maybe Inoue is right – maybe you guys _should_ get in contact with Urahara and get Ulquiorra hooked up with a gigai. Who knows –" his gaze flicks back to Ulquiorra momentarily before moving on again – "he might end up being useful to us."

"Don't misunderstand me, shinigami; I am not grateful that this has happened," Ulquiorra warns flatly. "I have no intention whatsoever of helping you or your compatriots."

The shinigami's expression is grim. "We'll see."


End file.
